I am dying (but my wife won't believe me)

by Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke
(Winchester Hampshire UK)

I am sitting in the Hospital
Waiting to give some blood
Will it be a nice fresh red?
Or will it look like mud?

I went to the Doctors
Because I felt a little queer
I am convinced I’m dying
Or I would not be here

I wasn’t feeling quite myself
I was feeling out of sorts
I was lying on my bed of death
Having morbid thoughts

‘You should get up’ Megan said
‘There is nothing wrong with you
Although I will admit one thing
You’re a nasty shade of blue.’

‘Am I really?’ I replied
Feeling a little bit sick
‘No not really,’ she said smiling
As she gave my butt a kick

‘If you are that worried
To the Doctors you should go
At least then if you’re dying
You will be in the know.’

So at last I managed
To get up out of bed
I was totally convinced
That by the evening I’d be dead

Happily I did not die
At least I didn’t die that night
But there is still that constant fear
That very soon I might

So I saw the great physician
Who looked at me with a smile
‘We all will die’ the Doctor said
But you will take a while.’

I felt the bile rising
The news hit me like a hammer
‘Tell me Doc, just what is wrong?’
I asked him with a stammer

The quack looked at me quizzically
With wry smile on his face
‘There’s nothing wrong, you are not ill
But you are a hopeless case.’

‘But you said that I am dying
You said I will not last
I feel quite poorly, I know I’m sick
I am fading fast.’

‘Okay’ said the man in white
‘I will run some tests on you
You will have to give some blood
And a sample of your poo.’

Then we’ll know if I am right
When I say you’ll live for years
So please stop all your whimpering
And dry away those tears.’

So here I am in pathology
Where a phlebotomist awaits
Soon I am going to get the news
Of when I’ll see the pearly gates

If the tests are negative
And they say that I’m okay
It only means that they are wrong
And I will try another day.

I know that I am very ill
I know that I am dying
Because in the morning when I awake
It hurts without me trying

They say that it’s all down to age
And that pain will come more often
If I just take some aspirin
The sensations then will soften

I will try it, and then they’ll see
That it isn’t in my head
They’ll be really very sorry
When actually I’m dead.

Click here to post comments

Join in and write your own page! It's easy to do. How? Simply click here to return to Submit a Poem.


Search Here for Poetry

Click here if you love us! Follow Me on Pinterest